


Put in the Work

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Bathroom Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Love/Hate, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Nicholai is a hoe again, POV First Person, Public Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Repression, Slut Shaming, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: As Mikhail ruminates on his hatred of Nicholai, he learns the younger man has some interesting proclivities at the local bar.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Mikhail Victor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Put in the Work

I hate Nicholai Zinoviev. 

That's probably not a surprise to you, dear reader, but it's a realization I only recently had myself. 

I recall the exact moment I came to that realization -- 7:48 p.m, last Tuesday. I was sitting in my office, listening to the nth Mercenary that year ramble through a half-assed formal complaint about him. The boy was nursing a reddened, barrel-burned forearm, poor thing. 

When his snivelling lips pursed over the words ' _I just hate him, Cap_...' and I couldn't stop myself from agreeing. The agreement rolled out instantaneously, firmly. The boy's eyes widened. I almost wanted to slap a hand over my mouth, at first. The unprofessionalism immediately hammered at the back of my head, and I internally chastised myself. 

But then -- it all went away. 

Suddenly, I didn't care if it was unprofessional. If I wasn't supposed to be giving my opinion on the nature of the complaints. If I was technically stepping out of line.

I just _didn't care_.

Vocalizing how much I hated him was liberating, in a way. It let me understand the black lump I had been harbouring in my heart for so long. The immediate irritation I got whenever he spoke. The sandpaper-rough grinding his distant laugh echoing down the dormitory halls always had on my cheeks.

It was all hate. 

Now, sitting at the back of the local bar, my eyes are fixated on him. Of course I was unlucky enough to pick a night and time he'd be there -- God must hate me.

He's sitting with a few of the other notable UBCS _bullies_ , Jerome Dominguez and John Wersbowski. Both are just as cruel and wicked as he is, based on complaints I've heard from other soldiers. But neither of them have ever rubbed me the same way as he has. Neither stoke my flame of ire as much as he does.

Maybe it's because we're both Russian. Muscovites have always been insufferable to me anyway -- never mind when compounded with his usual negative traits and the shitty personality he waves around proudly like a flag.

But as I grumble to myself, sipping at my drink with an increasing irritation, I just barely see it.

 _It_.

I almost have to squint, my gaze weaving through the floor of bodies chirping around the bar in giddy drunkenness.

Wersbowski's hand was definitely snaking across Nicholai's back. His pale fingers were peeking out against the dark leather of his jacket, curling around his shoulder. As they did, Nicholai tilts down towards him, resting his shoulder on the other man's chest, head leaning in to Wersbowski's neck. They continue to talk, Nicholai's lips rapidly moving around syllables, a tiny smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth.

Dominguez seemed unfazed by the sudden display of homoerotic intimacy -- one that perplexed me more than I can say.

I'd never pegged Nicholai as a _faggot_. In fact, I'd always assumed he was a womanizer -- probably an abusive one. A bad boyfriend, like he was a bad everything else. Certainly no one's husband or lover, just a greedy asshole who took what he wanted and dumped whoever couldn't give it to him.

And yet there he was -- his silver eyelashes reflected the dim light of the bar as they fluttered and he contently leaned deeper and deeper into Wersbowski's touch. He almost looked _delicate_. It was alien to me, like I was watching an animal mating ritual at a zoo. 

And then I saw _it_.

Another _it_. 

Dominguez's hand was on Nicholai's thigh, thumb rubbing tiny circles on the flesh. 

My drink was going neglected as I slid the glass between my hands in anxious concentration. I was confused, perplexed, curious. But just as the three men began to stir, my vision was obstructed.

"Hey, Cap! We didn't know you were going to be here tonight!"

Murphy Seeker bobbed across from my table, flanked on both sides by Carlos Olivera and Tyrell Patrick.

Little shits, interrupting the only interesting thing that had happened that week.

"Oh! I-I... uhh..." I stumbled through a reply, covertly trying to peer over the young man's shoulder and catch what was happening at Nicholai's table, "I usually come on the weekends but I... I-- uhh... I needed a break tonight."

They were gone.

 _Shit_.

"We're here every night!" Carlos added with his typical, machismo-white smile, "A good place to take the edge off, right?"

The three were settling into the chairs opposite from me. I tried to hide my disappointment. 

~

I returned to the bar the next week.

Same time, same day of the week. I sat at the same table. 

The bar was busier than it had been the last week -- more Mercenaries and local off-shift policemen bustling through every little nook and cranny in the old pub. 

Nicholai and the other two weren't there and hadn't come -- or so I thought.

I'd run through quite a few whiskey sodas while I had been waiting and pondering if I'd gone insane, and the bathroom demanded my presence an hour into the night. The lineup was tremendous. Polite as I am, I waited in steady silence, inching along the dirtied red carpet as space allowed, trying not to clack the toes of my boots against the heels of the man in front of me. 

The line came to an almost complete standstill at one point, and I couldn't help but grumble my dissatisfaction under my breath. But though I thought the mutterings had been lost to the incredible, increasing volume in the bar, I was wrong. The man in front of me turned slightly, a smile on his rose-flushed face.

"Hey, don't worry pal -- you'll get your turn!" He said, breath stinking of cheap beer.

I didn't think much of his jovial encouragement... until, nearly 45 minutes later, I was at the front of the line. By then, my need had long since passed, but my curiosity had forced me to stay in the line. I began to hear more and more murmurings that piqued my interest as I got closer to the open, but obscured door. 

It became obvious, even before I saw it, that they weren't waiting in line to use the bathroom. 

But then I did see _it_.

_It._

Though still through a forest of bobbing bodies, I managed to finally catch a glimpse inside the white-walled room. 

My eyes couldn't have possibly gotten any wider. It almost hurt, how locked my jaw became in those minutes of gaped-open surprise. 

_Nicholai_. 

It didn't take a rocket scientist to understand what he was doing, on his knees at the very back of the washroom. But in that moment, I wouldn't have even been able to preform basic math, let alone be able to add together why he was on the _fucking_ floor, on his _fucking_ knees. I most certainly couldn't compute the moans that were coming from the men who would step in front of him as their 'turn' came around, heads tossed back and the occasional, aggressive remark being cast out into my ears through flushed lips.

As I became the next person in the queue, the front was clear enough to see Dominguez and Wersbowski. The Pole was casually smoking a cigarette, leaning against the back of the wall, monitoring the ministrations, but Dominguez was clearly embroiled in his own lusty haze, eyes closed softly. I could just barely see Nicholai's fist working in steady jerks at his hips.

My thoughtless thoughts were depleted as the man in front of me came to his clear climax, aiming a few chuckles downwards as he tidied himself up shortly after. 

And then it was just me. I forgot about the dozens of men piled behind me -- it didn't seem to matter in that moment. Especially when Nicholai's jade eyes flicked up at mine, growing slightly. His masturbation of Dominguez slowed, and the two other men quickly found their sights settling on me as well. Wersbowski plucked the cigarette from his lips quickly, as though I would have chastised him for it. 

Nicholai was sopping up discharge on his chin with the back of his free hand, tongue running over his teeth.

Everything was silent for a moment. Nothing mattered. 

I could feel myself leaning down towards him, bending at the waist so as to be closer. My brow was furrowed so tightly I could feel a headache coming on.

"What the fuck... are you doing?"

It was all I could manage to say in that moment. It was the only question that had retained any semblance of permanence in my queasy mind. 

"What does it look like I'm doing...?" He answered, voice raspier than it would have normally been. 

My answer blurted itself out far too quickly, "Whoring yourself?" 

Nicholai scoffed a loud, semi-amused laugh, "Not a _whore_. I'm not getting paid."

"For once in your life!" I spat, the answer seeming to draw a genuine chuckle from the younger man. I could still feel Wersbowski's eyes on me, though Dominguez seemed preoccupied in his own delayed pleasure. 

Nicholai's nostrils flared, the corner of his filthy lips cocking upwards as his amusement turned to a snarl. The grip he had on Dominguez's cock apparently got tighter in his frustration, as the other man suddenly bellowed a loud, anxious moan. 

"Look, _Captain_..." My rank was a hiss through his teeth, "Do you want your cock sucked or not? If not..." 

I'll admit that the offer, as stern as it was, left me stunned. The Sergeant's jade eyes narrowed slightly, cheek twitching as his jaw clenched.

It was then that I realised it wasn't actually an offer at all -- it was a _challenge_.

And _as if_ I'd ever turn down a challenge from that little _shit_.

I straightened my back, peering down my nose at him. He'd never looked more disgusting to me -- cheeks flushed, lips swollen, shirt soiled with dark spots from fluid stains. He had a fistful of cock in one hand and his other was now kneading his thigh, his legs probably falling asleep.

Yes, disgusting. 

But _gorgeous_.

"Hurry up, then." 

His brows jumped slightly, as though he wasn't expecting me to accept or participate in the strange universe I'd suddenly stumbled into.

That thought pissed me off.

He thinks I'm _weak_. It shouldn't have been a shock to me... He'd never been shy to express it before. I'd overheard him babbling to Dominguez and Wersbowski about it in the canteen, calling me _soft_.

Who was the soft one now?

I wanted to say that. That would have been a great line, wouldn't it have been? Instead, I felt a heat welling up in my belly, every emotion I felt in that moment combusting and melting into one another. Anger, lust, anxiety, confusion -- it was all one in the same now. After a few seconds of unmoving assessment on his part, I snapped at him again.

"Hurry up!" His eyebrows jumped a bit higher. I cast my thumb behind my shoulder in direction towards the men behind me, "You got a long night ahead of you, _da_?"

He looked so _fucking_ dumb for a second -- it was the closest I'd gotten to high my entire life. The bumbling, skittish way he was staring up at me now was like a drug. A very, very addictive drug.

Nicholai's free hand darted up to my pants, fumbling awkwardly through opening the zipper and button closure on my fatigues. 

The next hit of my new drug came when Nicholai's fingers slid into my briefs to find my cock wasn't even remotely hard. 

A haze of humiliation washed over his cheeks, but I couldn't stop myself from grinning.

"I'm not a _faggot_ like _you_. You've got to put in the work. Get me hard."

A challenge to rival his. What a beautiful dance this was. 

I knew he'd accepted the moment he pulled his other hand away from Dominguez, instantly neglecting the other man, who immediately responded with a curse of confusion. 

Now, he was dedicated to me -- one hand pulling out my soft cock while the other grabbed a fistful of my fatigues and pulled me closer. There was a concentrated insistence on his face, silver brow slightly furrowed, as he began to run his hands over me. 

He squeezed and pulsated his palm across my length, the pink tip of his tongue cutely peeping out of the corner of his mouth as he focused.

Of course, my body couldn't help but respond to the firm ministrations. I knew it eventually would, the sinking lead in my stomach coiling tighter and tighter until it burst into electricity that ran through every nerve in my body.

But still, I controlled myself.

I'm an old soldier, after all. I've guided my body through far worse than cheap pleasure. 

I tried to assess Nicholai's movements -- the sloppy, desperate passes over my cock with his palm, the deep crease that continue to hollow between his brows. He looked like such a brat, a whiny toddler annoyed that he wasn't getting the exact thing he wanted when he wanted it. I couldn't help but snort to myself, the joviality prompting him to look up at me quickly.

"For a _dirty bathroom whore_ , you aren't very good at this!"

Wersbowski found my comment funny, his giggle drawing a furious glare from Nicholai. 

It was another hit of the new drug I'd discovered. 

_Fuck_ , it felt good.

The silver-haired pest sucked a breath through his nose, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. I steeled myself for the moment his lips pressed against the head of my cock, parting slightly to suckle at it demurely. I couldn't help but groan at the sensation -- especially when his tongue began to roll on the underside of my head, scrubbing it roughly as he sucked in tiny, tepid caresses. 

He seemed pleased with himself when I did. 

_Too_ pleased -- the corners of his lips turning upwards.

I had to put an end to that, I decided in that moment. I reached out and grabbed a fistful of the short, silver locks on the back of his head, the sudden roughness scaring his eyes and lips open to a pathetic gasp.

When I shoved my cock down his throat, the gurgle of unpreparedness he made was nothing short of religious. Wersbowski immediately delighted into a semi-cheer, a new cigarette bobbing between his lips, and even Dominguez, with his neglected manhood still in his hand, couldn't help but laugh. 

_Everyone hates you, you stupid piece of shit. Even your own 'friends' like to see you get roughed up!_

An unhinged, hateful, spiteful, evil thought -- I know. But I had it nonetheless. 

I could feel heat welling up in my cheeks as Nicholai's throat spasmed around me, the tight ring of muscle jerking and contracting as it tried to accommodate me. His hands were pawing at the fabric on my thighs as he struggled to catch any breaths. I'll admit I was trying to keep him chasing air, thrusting shallowly -- backing away just enough to let him think he could, and then pushing back all the way in.

His face was flushing red, eyes clenched shut tightly as he gurgled and gasped around my cock.

He looked better this way. So much better.

Satisfied with his forced submission, I began to take my pleasure from him. 

It felt as good physically just as it did mentally, I can't lie. His mouth was hot and wet, and -- to his credit -- he didn't try to push me away. He let me work his throat like it was a worn-out cocksleeve, thrusting into it like cheap, well-used pussy. 

I could feel his tongue rolling against me, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth and leaking in clear tendrils down his chin. It didn't take long for my balls to twitch with the familiar jerk of desperation, cum swelling up inside of me and cascading through my cock in a mad rush for release.

I pulled out when I came so I could empty my load all over his stupid face -- I wanted my seed to seep into his pores, to burn his eyes, to leave a mark on him that he wouldn't be able to wipe off with his filthy sleeve before the next anonymous stranger wanted his turn. 

I wiped my cock against his cheek, smearing off the last pearls with an eagerness. It was then that his eyes finally opened to look up at me, though it was only for the briefest second before they cast themselves towards the floor.

The look I caught there almost made me hard again.

A little bit disgusted.

A little bit relieved.

A little more _broken_.

I didn't say anything to him as I tucked myself away, turning on the heels of my boots with a chipper cluck and wading through the renewed crowd. 

Perhaps I didn't hate Nicholai Zinoviev after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at writing in the "first person POV," so you can give me feedback on that! I'm not sure how I did.
> 
> Oooooh boy its been a while since I did a Mikholai but I miss it terribly :(
> 
> TRIVIA TIME! John Wersbowski is an actual character from the SD Perry novelisation of RE3. He and Nicholai committed a bunch of crimes together before Nicholai turned on him and killed him.


End file.
